


Anxiety

by valderys



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sga_flashfic, Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are what you eat, even on Atlantis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006 for Sga_flashfic's This Is Not Happening Challenge.

Sparks. Something blew when he activated the transporter. He must fix it. Open up the panel and swap the crystal shaped like the letter M and the one that looks a bit like Italy, all pointy like a boot. He must…

The doors slide aside and his hands, already reaching for the panel, eager and assured, slow their movement, and then stop entirely. He draws them back to himself, and one finger raises itself to his mouth. A gesture of disbelief, or a seeking for comfort? Who can know. Certainly no-one else will be able to tell him.

The transporter has opened onto the corridor that leads to the mess hall. It is always busy. Shifts are always winding down, or starting. Snacks and breaks are better taken together than apart. The city is still so large. So empty. It is hard not to huddle together against the chill of an alien night.

No more. Apparently. The corridor is silent. It is dim and dusty, and it echoes with his footstep. There are still ten thousand year old plants scattered like desiccated artworks, serving merely to make the city feel more alone.

The light is dim, a glow from the transporter, nothing more. Even that is flickering crazily. He takes a step back, his sharply indrawn breath loud and harsh in the silence. He reaches for the panel again, his first thought, more important than ever, and he ignores the way his heart beats like a drum, the way sweat is forming on his brow. This is the only light, the only source of power, and it is damaged, it is going to fail. Then he will be left in the dark. Left in a lightless, undiscovered city, with no power and no means to initialise any. He will be left to die.

His hands reach for the panel; he can fix this, find out what is wrong. He can… His glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them up, his fingers suddenly clumsy with fear. The transporter glows brighter as he removes the panel, and the crystals shine as prettily as icicles in the sun. He reaches for them, and they chime lightly as he clinks one against another. That's right. Move the letter M, shift Italy, he can do this. He can do this. He can…

The light goes out.

***

 

He's done this before, he can do this again. He is a shadow in the dark, a whisper of wind. He can strike and be gone into the night, like every other cliché he can remember from the Saturday morning movies when he was a kid. He'd loved those movies. Curled up in front of the TV, watching Zorro, and Robin Hood, and Flash Gordon flying in his silver space ship.

Step. Hold. Look at the life signs detector. Swivel on your heel. Shoot. Swing the stunner to your shoulder. Lean down to cut its throat. Count them again. The little dots on the tiny screen.

He can't afford to be afraid, in case he breathes too loudly. And he can't afford to be heard or seen. He doesn't need much light, and the city hides him anyway. It knows where he is, and he knows where he is in the city. That's all that matters. It's why he stayed.

The others all got out, he knows that much, taking essential supplies, anything they could carry. Walking away through the rippling gate, leaving him behind. It ought to be a comfort to him, knowing they've all escaped, that he's done his job, but all he feels is alone. He shouldn't be, the city knows he's there, it wants to comfort him. But that isn't good enough. There are things that can be learnt from Atlantis, things that he must stop _them_ ever learning.

Poise. Lean. Raise your arm slowly, so slowly. Another shot, and the enemy falls. Listen. No echo of another's movement. Step forward. Slit its throat. Watch its blood bubble with its breath, and then cease to flow.

The city knows where he is, it welcomes him, its song dancing at the edge of his awareness as it never does when everyone else is there. He needs that. It's the one thing that makes him special. He's never thought of himself as special before, because he knows he's useless, a disappointment. His father told him that often enough. But for this task, he is, he's the only one who can do it. The only one.

He reaches the console, and he presses a pad. He feels the city respond, he feels its reluctance, its unhappiness. Or does he feel his own uncertainty? But he commands it, and it shuts down. Another section of the city to fall into eternal darkness. He's never obeyed any order so faithfully as the city does his own.

He watches the screen. Another dot shifts away from the others. He watches it move and then pads after it. It will fall to the stunner, and then he'll watch its blood spurt from the beneath the knife.

He doesn't know how many enemies are in Atlantis, but he can't let them live. He can't let them have his beautiful city, alive and aware, and full of knowledge. So he has to kill them, one by one. And then he has to murder the city, piece by shining piece.

And he has to do it, over and over again.

***

 

He can't sleep. He can't afford to sleep, he _mustn't_ sleep.

He can't stop his eyes from closing.

The laptop swims before him, blurring between one blink and the next. The city will fail, will explode, and they will all die, if he can't stay awake. He must stay awake. He has to.

There are clowns dancing in the corners of his eyes, they beckon him to join them, they show him the clean soft sheets with the green stripes he had when he was eight. They proffer beanbags and marshmallows and fluffy pillows. He hates them all. They're not even his own dreams. He knows they've been sent from someone else's nightmares to inhabit his own.

The clowns look sad. He shakes his head 'til there are spots before his eyes instead. His laptop screen becomes readable again. And there are the equations. And the problem he needs to solve. To stop the city exploding. Or is it to prevent them being invaded? Or is it the ZPM? Oh god, he can't even remember what disaster it is this time. How is he meant to fix it?

He blinks again and then forces himself to stand. He sways on his feet. He is so tired.

He walks over to the coffee machine but it's empty. Of course, it is. The world hates him, everybody hates him. They only keep him around so he can fix their mistakes, so he can save them. Except he can't because he can't remember what it is he's meant to do.

He blinks again and the clowns smile. They begin playing a lullaby on bright red violins. It's so beautiful. He remembers when he could play that melody, the counterpoint threading in and out of the main harmony, his hands just wide enough to bridge the keys…

No. He forces his eyes open. He must stay awake. If he doesn't, he will never be forgiven. And he wants to be forgiven so very much. Maybe there are more stimulants he can take? Maybe if he just sits here for one second, he'll wake up enough to remember where they are?

He sits down and tries to think. His eyes begin to close…

The clowns laugh.

***

 

It's late when Major Lorne makes it off-shift, and he's hungry and tired, but his brain is working overtime. He's too wired to sleep although he knows he should. Instead, he wanders into the mess hall, hoping that a snack will distract him, and cure at least one of the problems. Standing at the counter, he raises an eyebrow at Sergeant Lopez, who grins back.

"Welsh Rarebit?" says Lorne, staring at the bread and cheese, trying not to drool, "I'm impressed. We haven't had enough cheese to even sprinkle on the not-lasagne for weeks."

"Came on the Daedalus, sir, by special request."

"Huh. I didn't even know we had anyone Welsh on the team."

He smirks with the Sergeant, because they both damn well know it wasn't that kind of request, and if he'd been off-shift earlier, he'd have been eating pizza, probably, or burritos. It's only the late hour, and the kitchens almost being closed, that makes this the only available snack. Lorne doesn't blame Lopez. They're all tired, here in Atlantis. They're all tired, all of the time.

Lopez reaches for the ingredients for the proto-cheese-on-toast, and Lorne shakes his head wearily.

"I can't, Sergeant. You know what they say about eating cheese before bed? You get bad dreams."

"You don't really believe that, sir, do you?" Lopez asks, and Lorne laughs.

"We get enough of the regular sort – there's no need to court trouble."

And he grabs an apple-pear instead and crunches through it on the way to his quarters.

He sleeps like a baby. Deeply, and peacefully, and with no dreams at all.


End file.
